Count
by Fair-Ithil
Summary: Love requires few grand gestures, especially in the black. Written for Four Ways to Show Love Without Sex, all canon pairings, and Rayne. Four of Four
1. Give

**Disclaimer: Not Joss, don't sue. It's simple really.**

**A/N: **This was originally supposed to be _Five Ways to Show Love Without Sex_ but I cut it down to five because I didn't want to play favorites.** This first one is Simon's PoV, Simon/Kaylee, Post-BDM. Read review and enjoy. **

**-**

"**_I love thee to the level of everyday's most quiet need…"_**

**- **

**Give**

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He buys Kaylee fruit whenever he's got enough left over from his cut. It's difficult, money seems to get tighter by the job. There is still River's medication to look after, after all, because while his sister is definitely better nowadays she isn't fixed (and how he hates thinking in that term, hates that it makes his sister something less human and more machine like, like the bits and pieces Kaylee takes apart daily).

It's not nearly as often as he would like that he picks something up for her, an apricot or some plums, maybe oranges if he's got enough—she loves that the smell lingers longer than the fruit, loves the way it seeps into her hands—and he is always on the look out for strawberries. "They're like little rubies." She says whenever she sees them, hopefully washed and ready in one of Serenity ceramic bowls. He wonders if Kaylee's ever seen a real ruby.

He used to wish he could buy her one, or a sapphire or a diamond, and he still does because she deserves it. She deserves more than trinkets or baubles, she deserves every bit of the 'verse laid out on a silver platter for her enjoyment.

He doesn't beat himself up over the fact that he can't give all of it to her, not anymore. He's made peace with the fact that he's not in the situation where he can aspire to such gifts on a regular basis. He knows that she doesn't think any less of what he does have to give.

Because there's just something about the way her face lights up whenever he pulls out a basket of cherries or an apple (and on one occasion, a pomegranate he bartered nearly half an hour for). It all comes down to her smile, that beautiful, full smile that covers every inch of her face, and her laughter as she reaches and her thank yous that rain down on him in a storm of laughing and hugging and kissing. It's almost as though he were handing her the 'verse instead of an apple.

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**A/N: Quote from Elizabeth Browning's sonnet XLIII: "How do I love thee?"**


	2. Allowance

**Disclaimer: Not Joss, don't sue. It's simple really.**

**A/N: Inara PoV, second person narrative, Mal/Inara implied.** Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.

**-**

"**_I love thee with a passion put to use in my old griefs…"_**

**- **

**Allowance**

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Zoë cuts his hair.

You know that because you've sat at the table while he sits ramrod straight, Zoë's fingers moving quickly through his hair while the other hand, steady and well practiced, follows with what could be the oldest pair of scissors in the known 'verse. You know Zoë's been cutting his hair since the war. You've seen with your own eyes the familiar ease that settles into both Zoë and Mal when there are together and no guns are involved (you have also witnessed it when bullets do fly).

It's this knowledge that makes it impossible to hide the surprise on your face when he enters your shuttle in the middle of the afternoon, an impossible shadow lingering in the doorway, hands thrust deep into his pockets. And there is that fleeting panic at the back of your throat that comes with meeting his eyes, and you're half afraid today is the day he'll ask more of you.

And maybe it is, you think later when you find yourself sitting him down before you, a pair of scissors in your hand.

"You ever done this before?" he asks, and there's that usual rough note that struggles to be uncaring, so much so that he doesn't have to add the word for you to know he's asking whether you've ever done this on the job.

"Shouldn't you have asked me that before we got started, Captain?"

You want to make light of the situation, don't want it to end like one of the many screaming matches you shared prior to your first departure from the ship. The fact that the two of you have yet to fight in true old fashion startles you, makes your shuttle (because it was always your shuttle, even when all your things were packed and carried away and you slept in another bed worlds away from Serenity) feel oddly quiet and small. You wet his hair down and the scissors are heavy in your hand, the ornate handle digging into you're palms as your fingers slip through his hair with ease. His shoulders tighten and he sits a bit straighter and you can see his hands where they form fists in his lap.

"Are you alright?" You put the scissors down, rest both hands on his shoulders, kneed the flesh through his shirt. He is all bone and sinew beneath your hands and you push down the waves of worry that swell deep within your chest. You wonder how you could have missed the lack of care he is paying himself, wonder how long it has been going on.

"Shiny," he clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair, you watch as it falls forward aimlessly before his eyes. He blows it away. "Just, ah, feeling a bit—"

"Apprehensive?" You work loose a knot and he tightens against the relief your hands provide.

He turns and gives you an annoyed glare, "Ain't afraid of a hair cut. Just that Zoë's been doing it for me for so long—"

And you hate the ripple of jealous that twists in your stomach at the thought. He would rather be sitting at the dinner table with a dishtowel around his neck then here with you. It's a petty feeling, it's selfish and childish and so un-Companion like that you find little else to do than blame it all on him. It hardly serves to better your inner turmoil.

"Why don't you go to Zoë then—?" The words leave your mouth and you know it is the wrong thing to say.

You have seen the comfortable familiarity between him and his first mate dissipate, seen the bonds that hold them together weaken over long bouts of silence and formality.

He gives a defeated sigh.

You hate that too. Suddenly nothing has changed and it is as though you have never left Serenity. For a brief and breathless moment you are the woman who sat crumpled in the corner of a dusty room, broken and defeated over a man who was worth less than gold and more than pain. And the lines that have long since fractured your heart are as clear then as the lines on his face.

Time shifts and heartbreak dulls to the familiar dull throb you have learned to live with back at the Training House, until it is not heartbreak at all but grief of another nature.

And you want to tell him it will all work itself out. You want to tell him this rough patch will pass and that Zoë will cut his hair yet again when she comes back to herself.

You want to tell him he didn't kill Wash.

And though the moment does not decree it, you want to tell him that you forgive him for Nandi and that you might love him more than you should. That what's makes all of this so difficult.

You don't. The words are stuck within your throat and in your heart and you don't have the strength to push them up. All your training proves useless when it comes to this man and the best you can do is ask him to sit up straight as you begin to run your fingers through his hair.

"You have good hair." You say softly. He laughs.

"Have to say yours is better darlin'." and you can practically see the crinkles around his eyes as he drawls the words.

You accept the compliment with a smile and pick up your scissors.

-

**Feedback is Love**

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**A/N: Quote from Elizabeth Browning's sonnet XLIII: "How do I love thee?"**


	3. Ephemeral

**Disclaimer: Not Joss, don't sue. It's simple really.**

**A/N: **Zoë and Wash are incredibly hard to write. Zoë's so collected and Wash is so, well, Wash, that it's hard to do them real justice. Their style of love and affection just isn't something I've had enough practice with, sadly enough**. Wash's PoV, Zoë/Wash, Pre-Firefly. **Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.

**-**

"**_I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life…"_**

**- **

**Ephemeral**

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It all happened on a little backwater moon just after noon. The courthouse was tiny, not so much cool marble as cracked plaster, with a judge that could have been from Earth-That-Was.

Mal gave her away, partly because it was expected, but mostly because it was right. She'd bought the dress not the week before from a thrift shop on Persephone, cream and caramel stripes interwoven into cascading patterns on her tall form. He never thought she'd looked more beautiful, his Warrior Woman (expect maybe the morning after when he woke up and she was his wife, forever and ever, because there was no getting over it).

She didn't carry flowers, and there wasn't a maid of honor anymore than there was a best man. Wash had almost gotten away with wearing one of his shirts to the ceremony, except that they'd managed to find him a half decent blue one during their last stop on Beaumonde. Mal shuffled away after passing her hand over to Wash and he looked straight ahead for the rest of the ceremony, stepping forward only when his signature was required.

Their vows were simple, to the book. Honor and love and cherish (and all those other synonyms that meant the same thing at the end of the day), for better or worse, 'til death did them part.

Then he kissed her and she kissed him back and it didn't matter that Mal was right there, or that the tiny old judge from time immemorial was waiting, because suddenly there was an eternity to give the other. Forever and forever and ever, spanning the whole of the 'verse, the endlessness of it all enough to make a man drunk with happiness.

Then it was over.

They left the courthouse and Serenity greeted them with silence because Bester had gone out, and Mal retreated to his bunk almost upon arrival.

There wasn't a cake, but they both got into the captain's whiskey to celebrate the occasion and when it was gone Wash was thankful they weren't scheduled to leave the planet in a hurry, because liquor could make a man as drunk as happiness, except that the liquor burned more.

"I'm gonna make you happy." He said, or slurred most like, taking her hand. She didn't have a ring. Maybe he'd buy her one someday, when there was money for such things. Maybe he wouldn't. His Zoë hardly took to jewelry. She truly didn't require adornment.

"Yeah?" She was a little slumped against the wall and he tried to tell her how happy he was that she'd married him, but his tongue won't work. So he kissed her instead because on a day like that one, it was the thing to do.

"Yeah."

And there was that feeling of forever again and he wanted to hold on to it, except that he didn't know how, because while happiness didn't burn, it certainly felt as though it could drown a man. "I could get use to that." She smiled then, one of her rare Zoë smiles, starting at the mouth and traveling till it was a part of her eyes, and he knew he would spend the rest of his life (and the lifetime after that and the lifetime after that) trying to see that smile again.

She smiled and nothing mattered. Not Mal's attitude or the lack of real celebration.

Those things, after all, stayed just for a day. But that smile,_ them,_ well, that was a lifetime.

-

**Feedback is Love**

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**A/N: Quote from Elizabeth Browning's sonnet XLIII: "How do I love thee?"**


	4. Loophole

**Disclaimer: Not Joss, don't sue. It's simple really.**

**A/N: **And so we reach the end of this adventure with the ship that got me into Firefly: Rayne. This is probably the sweetest, lightest, fluffiest Rayne ficlet you're ever going to get out of me. I want to thank everyone who reviewed and truly hope you all enjoyed this collection. So here it is: **River's PoV, Rayne, Post-BDM**. Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.

**-**

"**_I love thee… with my childhood's faith."_**

**- **

**Loophole**

-

The ice glared at her from its point of capture and she met its look with one equally hard.

"You will not beat this girl." She told it, holding its stare before diving for the attack. Mouth open, ready to strike the fatal blow, teeth perched like spears; the girl lunged from beneath and snapped. Her foe escaped her, slipped from between her ready lips, made a mockery of her as it left her nose cold and slippery-sweet.

She studied her enemy, the spherical shape, estimated its circumference, its radius, made mental notes of its density, its texture.

She attacked again, but her icy adversary evaded her with a cool cackle as it bobbed smugly on its string.

"You're doing it all wrong little girl."

Her eyes left her opponent and shot daggers at the big man sitting on the pile of crates to her left. "If he is not going to offer moral support or beneficial strategies of attack then she advises him to shut it."

The man had the nerve to laugh.

"Girl this ain't no battle. It's snack time. You don't need no strategies."

She glared once more at the man and turned her attention back to her dangling opposition. Neck stretched, feet step firmly apart, arm an appropriate distance from the body, she tired again, ignore the man as he called out to her.

She heard him heave a heavy sigh and heard him stomp his way over to her, but she felt his hand over hers.

"If ya gonna treat this like a battle, than all ya really need is a loophole little girl."

"Loophole?" She questioned, head cocked to the side as the malevolent frozen treat swung in lazy circles from their joined hands.

"Yeah, like this." His free hand moved her own unoccupied hand up towards the baleful entity, cupping her palm around it until its core weight was resting entirely in her hand, and the sticky-cold mass was trapped most satisfyingly in her fingers. "Don't gotta make a battle of it, baby doll, sometimes, things work best the simple way."

"The simple way," she breathed, leaning forward, lips tasting the creamy sweetness of hot summer days, sunlight and childhood melting on her tongue as she took a bite of the long withheld confection. And she could see herself as though from some outside vantage point; see the slim formation of lithe muscles and sharp-angled bones. She saw the ripples in the airy fabric of her dress—the color almost matching the melting confection their hands—she the color bloom across her cheeks from his proximity despite the easy tendrils that fell in the way. She saw a girl then, a child-woman, in her pink Sunday dress—and the image caused a glee in her, felt as real as the melting ice crystals held tight against her palm.

The picture settled in her mind, and she tucked it away in a safe corner, the feelings it had created still as thick within her as the contentment that came with victory.

She straightened then, felt his nose brush against the top of her head and the hazy buzz of joy that was not remotely her own, but instead seeped into her skin from the man behind her.

"A loophole." She agreed as she turned to share their victory.

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**End**

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**Feedback is Love**

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**A/N: Quote from Elizabeth Browning's sonnet XLIII: "How do I love thee?"**

_**How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.  
I love thee to the level of everyday's  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;  
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.  
I love thee with a passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death.**_


End file.
